


Wild Eyes / Angel Eyes

by supertonic



Series: 𝖂𝖎𝖑𝖉 𝕰𝖞𝖊𝖘 / 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 𝓔𝔂𝓮𝓼 [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Cheating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Last Game, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship, Time Skips, but at the same time not???, but lets not forget that kise ain't that innocent either, just two though possibly, reader isn't innocent, reader's an actor but that will be expanded later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29060451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supertonic/pseuds/supertonic
Summary: He looks over your exhibition, and he notices two things.One. Each piece is cropped crudely; the angles are strange, and even though Ryouta isn’t a photography expert, he’s been modeling long enough to know that none of these can technically be considered good photos. Two. Even though they’re cut in strange places, there’s this sensual air to them. While other patrons automatically assume these are pictures of him, Ryouta knows that none of these are.But he plays dumb — for now.
Relationships: Haizaki Shougo/Reader, Kise Ryouta/Reader
Series: 𝖂𝖎𝖑𝖉 𝕰𝖞𝖊𝖘 / 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 𝓔𝔂𝓮𝓼 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132034
Kudos: 2





	1. photo.

**Author's Note:**

> the first part of this fic takes place post-last game. kise, reader, and the rest of the gom are 17.

> _you know it’s just work. i have to go. i don’t have a choice. you know that._

He doesn’t reply to you after that, which is expected. But maybe the reason you’re telling him that you can’t hang out is that he’s always all over you when you flake on him — you are a sucker for your boyfriend’s affection.

Boyfriend? Can he even be called that? It isn’t like anything is official between you — you just hang around one another. You don’t even think he would appreciate you calling yourself his ‘girlfriend.’ Besides, everything with him was…casual. You slip on a cardigan and head out the door.

It’s not hard to miss him when you reach the front gates of his school — he’s gorgeous to a fault, and his hair reflecting the warmth of sunlight almost blinds you. It also does not help that he’s dressed as a prince. You run to him, vigor in your steps and excitement bouncing in your vocal cords.

“Ryouta!”

His smile is indescribable — both beautiful and handsome at the same time. His angelic eyes drip with sweet honey when he sees you. He runs over too, and you meet each other halfway. He holds you tightly in his arms — he doesn’t usually, but it’s different since there are people around, staring in awe and envy. Of course, they would be — you’re a famous childhood star while he’s an in-demand model.

His hand latches onto yours, fingers lacing into your own — it fills your gaps. He holds your much smaller hand hostage. “Ready to look around the festival?” Ryouta asks you with a squeeze of his hand.

You giggle when he does and nod. “Of course I am,” you sing. Then you wave your finger over at his costume. He’s wearing a blue long coat — the elite shade of blue that Kaijou is known for; the type of blue that emphasized the gold color of his eyes — with a pearl white cravat and matching pants. He’s dressed like one of those posh gentlemen you would see from time to time while channel surfing. He still looks nice, though; kind of like a prince. “What’s up with this get up?”

Ryouta gives you a twirl and poses. “You like it? It’s a costume for a play my class is doing! The plays kinda weird and it’s not exactly a play you’d usually do in school festivals, but my class rep’s been obsessed with classic English literature lately.”

Not that you know any English classics, you still ask him. You’re curious and you can tell by his excitement over the question that he was going to tell you anyway. “Wuthering Heights!”

Yeah. You definitely did not know that story, but you still nod along with a smile.

Ryouta drags you along the campus for the remainder of your time together. He takes you to the third-year hall first. At first, you’re not sure why he takes you to the third-years’, but then you remember that he’s on the basketball team. He has been since middle school. To be honest, you’re not too invested in basketball anymore — not since that. But if Ryouta invites you to watch, you watch…if you have time, that is.

One of his teammates’ class is running a photo studio, and Ryouta brings you to take one with him. His costume attracts the attention of numerous girls throughout the school while it causes a disgusted grimace to form on his teammates’ faces. “I always play some kind of prince in these school plays,” Ryouta says to no one yet everyone around him. His teammate and senior, Shinya Nakamura, roll his eyes. “I mean I know I’m good-looking, but I’m kinda sick of playing princes and nice, rich gentlemen, you know?”

You nod along to his words and giggle — mostly because of Nakamura’s increasing annoyance with him. “I’m taking the picture now,” he grinds out through his teeth, grumbling about how he misses last year’s seniors beating Ryouta to a pulp.

Ryouta pulls you to his side and leans down a bit, and you take the hint and rest your head against his shoulder. You smile, looking like you’re the happiest girl on earth in the embrace of the best guy in the world. You’re about to slip through the door by yourself mostly because Ryouta’s senior and teammate pulling him back to scold him for something, and you hear a bit of his disgruntled advice:

“You have _got_ to be more humble, Kise. You’re girlfriend’s going to snap one day because of you!”

“Woah, I didn’t think _you_ would give me relationship advice!” Ryouta laughs, and then there’s a crash followed by a whiney noise. “But don’t worry,” he whimpers, “she’s not my girlfriend.”

You’re not surprised that the entryway’s surrounded by a hoard of girls, groaning in disappointment when they see that it’s just you that leaves the room.

You huff in irritation.

You’re the _real_ famous one here, not him!

You look down at your phone. There’s a message from your manager, a few from your friends, but absolutely nothing from the person you’re actually waiting for a message from. You know he wouldn’t appreciate you whining to him like this — he doesn’t like people telling him what to do. He did say he doesn’t like it when girls tie him down, but you can’t help it. Ryouta isn’t showing any sign of coming out of the room any time soon, so you decide to message him again.

> _i’m bored._

The squealing girls behind tell you that Ryouta’s finally out of the classroom. He chats with a couple until he finds his way to you, a slew of excuse me and pardon me coming closer and closer. You turn to face him, waiting for him in anticipation. “Ready for round two?” He puts his hand in yours again.

The group of girls behind you gasp, some hiss with envy, and you even hear a couple of them coo at the sweet display. Ryouta scratches his cheek bashfully while you shyly look down at your shoes even though you had been basking in the attention half an hour ago.

You smile up at him, your hand giving his a playful squeeze. “Of course!”

* * *

Ryouta immediately checks his phone when it buzzes, and hastily leaves the room when he reads the message. He leads you to one of the freshmen’s classrooms — the one who promised to give him free onion gratin soup if he shows up and promotes the kid’s class. You sit in the seat comfortably, and the kid lets you have a dish for free as well.

Ryouta tells you about Kaijou’s facilities with a smile, but the entire time, he doesn’t miss the way you fiddle around your phone every minute or so. He pretends he doesn’t notice, though, even as you nod absentmindedly. 

“What’s up?” he asks as soon as he notices your eyes light up. He follows your movements closely, studying each little joint and unconscious twitches you make — like he does when copying movements. This time though, he’s not playing against a basketball opponent but a different opponent entirely.

“Shoot,” you sigh as you lock your phone, “I don’t think I can stick around to see your performance, Ryouta.” You put your chin in your palm, dejectedly rolling a cherry tomato with your fork. “I forgot I had an assignment due soon.”

There’s a stiff way you explain yourself that Ryouta catches immediately. Your tells are obvious. But then again, Ryouta considers himself too perceptive for his own good. He playfully pokes your cheek. “You don’t need to worry about it.” He waves his phone in front of you. A text message telling him to go to the auditorium showing up on the screen. “Besides, it’s about time I get ready for the play.” He gets up and offers you a hand so you could get up as well. He tilts his head, still retaining a smile. “Text me when you’re done?”

You take his hand. “Of course.”

* * *

“Just so you know, you can’t take other people’s pictures,” Shinya sighs out. He doesn’t know how many girls he had to say this to, but it got old the first time he had to remind them. Shinya Nakamura is just a normal third-year student at Kaijou, who just happens to be in the basketball club with Generation of Miracles member, parttime model — and really? He’s moving onto acting now? That kid needs a break — Ryouta Kise, and loudmouth captain, Mitsuhiro Hayakawa — just thinking about those two gives him a headache. He just wants to spend his last year of high school playing basketball and having fun. But this…just isn’t it.

He flips through his notes, grumbling about how Kise just had to take a picture here when he could easily take one by himself. _On his phone._ And why did his class decide to manually develop the photos, anyway? Such a hassle.

He gets up from his chair slightly to greet the newest visitor when he hears the door slide open. He sits back down, a bit relieved that the new visitor is a guy, one he doesn’t recognize, but the school festival’s open for the public and he doesn’t know all the students that attend Kaijou. Though, he does get antsy when he lingers in front of a drying rack for a bit too long. Normally, this kind of thing is something g he wouldn’t pay attention to, but that visitor seems suspicious with a bright red baseball cap pulled all the way down to his eyes.

Shinya sighs again, closing his notebook to walk towards him. “If you want a picture, we have a camera right here. It’ll take an hour at most to develop them, though,” he explains, voice devoid of emotion. He grows increasingly anxious when the guy goes over to touch the picture. “Hey, they’re not done yet. Quit touching it,” he informs the stranger as he tries to swat the guy’s hand away. The guy doesn’t listen. He easily swipes the photo right off the rack and shoves it in his pocket. “What the hell are you doing?” Shinya asks, growing increasingly annoyed. His hand goes up to the guy’s shoulder to stop him. “You can’t just take someone else’s picture!”

The guy shoves Shinya to the floor. His glasses are now pushed down to his nose, crooked. He adjusts it angrily and catches a glimpse of the guy’s wild eyes — hungry and irritated.

“Shut _up_ , man,” the guy drawls out, his smile aligning with the nasty way he growls. “What’s wrong with taking my girl’s picture? Well, actually—” He takes the photo right out of his pocket and rips it in half, throwing the ripped piece right on Shinya’s nose. “Keep that one. I don’t need that.” The guy leaves the room right after that, lazily whistling as he swaggers off.

Shinya gets up, grumbling about what an asshole that guy was, and removes the torn piece from his nose.

It’s the picture of Kise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been thinking about this idea since I started knb way back in high school, and I didn’t start fiddling with the idea until kise’s backstory/teikou arc. I never really understood why people saw kise as this saint, but I guess his development and overall laid-back character make up for his arrogance? so I guess this fic is just about me trying to deconstruct him as a character even though he’s barely in it. I don’t really know. maybe it’s just me justifying my love for haizaki. but anyway, I stopped writing this fic after knb ended but when I found out the show got an english dub (after 5? 4? years!!!!!) and realizing my unabashed love for taylor swift’s discography, I decided to pick it back up. one a side note: style, betty, cardigan, the 1, drivers license and linda are all huge inspirations to this fic.


	2. roots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shake your head. “It’s nothing.” You reach up to tuck a piece of now-black hair behind his ear. “Just admiring my work.” You struggle to get that one piece of hair, so he leans down so you could get easier access. He looks back at his reflection in the mirror — it’s the first time he’s looked at hit all night — he brushes his hair back. He admires your work with a smile.

You keep your eyes on your phone on your way home. It’s clear that he read your message, but he didn’t reply to it. You were scared that he’d show up while you were with Ryouta, but thankfully, he didn’t try to do anything funny. You don’t know what you would have done if he and Ryouta met face to face. Kiss your career goodbye, maybe? But it isn’t like you’re working as an actor anymore — you stopped clinging to the roles you had, effectively retiring from show business.

So why exactly are you desperate to keep your involvement with him a secret from Ryouta?

“Hey Princess,” you hear. You look up from your device, your face brightening as soon as you see him.

It’s Shougo!

You run up to him to give him a quick hug which he doesn’t reciprocate. He just squeezes your side and you squirm in response. “Don’t get any weird ideas,” he says as soon as he sees the hopeful glint in your eyes, “I’m only here because some chick left me hanging.”

The first thing he does when you unlock your door is to sit down on the couch, his long legs resting on your coffee table. He makes himself at home while you place your cardigan on your bed. You scroll through your phone to order some food.

You leave your room quickly when you hear a quiet thump, only to see that he’s throwing his red baseball cap on the floor. You sigh, relieved that he didn’t make too much of a mess — not like he does, anyway. And he always makes sure to clean up after himself when he does. You immediately notice his roots peeking through his hair, and you make a knowing noise. You walk over to the couch and comb your hands through his hair to unravel each braid carefully. “You do color it better than actual hair salons, and you’re free of charge.” He lets out a soft purr when he feels the pads of your fingers press down on his scalp. He swats your hand away, and with a devilish lick of his thumb, he looks you up and down.

“Well almost free.”

* * *

You’re cleaning the black hair dye off of your bathroom sink. The chore isn’t anything hard, but you spend a long time in the bathroom, rearranging towels and soaps for no reason besides some time for him to watch a basketball game. You once made the mistake of walking out of the bathroom too early and caught off guard by your sudden re-entry, Shougo juggled to remote in his hands before awkwardly changing the channel.

“Was the match any good?” you had asked him. He looked skittish, not at all expecting you to be out so quickly.

“How the fuck would this shitty sport be any good?” he asked back. His voice squeaked slightly, but the sheer volume of it still made you flinch. He turned off the TV and threw the remote across the room. He had stormed out of your house after that, not even bothering to take his jacket and karaage with him.

You finally leave the bathroom when he tells you to get the door. You peak into the living room, managing to catch a glimpse at whatever he was watching before he switched the channel to go into the kitchen. He was watching basketball; of course he was. He could yell all he wants about how he doesn’t care for it, but you know deep down that he loves the sport more than he lets on. His passion for it is so obvious. Does he not notice how he gawks at Basket Monthly much longer than he looks at gravure magazines?

By the time you’re back in the living room with dinner in hand, your coffee table’s all set up with bowls and other utensils. You smile to yourself, happy that he’s in a good mood today. But it all changes when he flips to a certain channel. “Aw c’mon,” he groans, “this bitch again?”

You don’t look up to see who he’s talking about because you recognize the voice on the TV instantly, and you freeze the moment you do. Suddenly, you don’t feel like eating anymore. You drop your chopsticks and push your bowl away from you. You don’t want to look at the TV — want to tell him to change the channel right away — but you’re held captive by the charismatic display in front of you. “Can you not call her a bitch?”

He only clicks his tongue. “What exactly do people see in this shitty kid anyway?” he asks to no one in particular through gritted teeth. “She’s flat as a board, untalented—”

“Shougo,” you say his name, voice firm. You don’t want to hear it. He shuts up immediately. Your eyes are still trained to the TV, so you don’t notice it when he’s now sitting on the floor with you.

“She’s only 14, and she’s my sister,” you say as a warning. You feel tremors in your voice which you hope Shougo wouldn’t catch on to, but he knows you too well. Normally, he would fight back — either with a witty comeback that would make you giggle or a low grumble which would cause your eyes to roll — but he stays silent for now. You keep your eyes on the screen until Shougo changes the channel halfway through your sister’s performance — oh how happy she looked singing and dancing like that in front of her fans. He puts his arm around you, and somehow, the scent of cigarettes and his cheap cologne calm your nerves.

“Don’t defend assholes like them.”

“‘Them?’ They’re not assholes, Shougo. They’re my family.”

“Some family,” he grumbles out, eating the last of his karaage. You sit in silence as he continues to surf through numerous channels. He finally lands on one when you’re about to doze off in his arms.

It’s quiet for a bit longer. You only hear pre-produced laugh tracks and his soft chuckles. Then, you feel him lift you on the sofa. He covers you up with a blanket. “I’m gonna wash this dye out of my hair,” he whispers into the shell of your ear. His hand pushes the hair out of your face. Then, he pinches your side. You wake up with a squeak. “You’re welcome to join me, Princess.”

He walks off to the bathroom, not even bothering to turn off the TV or to close the bathroom door. You decide to follow him into the bathroom when you hear the spray of the showerhead, but only after you see what he had been watching while you were dozing off.

It was one of your shows.

* * *

It’s unusual of Shougo to be the one drying your hair, but since this is such a rare opportunity, you gladly take it. For such a rough guy, he massages your head so well. His fingers press the right places, but his pressure is just too light for your taste — like he’s almost afraid to touch you when he has no qualms groping and biting other parts of you. But you still sigh into his chest. He chuckles at your reaction. You swear you see a hint of softness in his eyes when you look up but it’s gone before you could think too deeply on it. “What?” he asks you with a quirked brow.

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.” You reach up to tuck a piece of now-black hair behind his ear. “Just admiring my work.” You struggle to get that one piece of hair, so he leans down so you could get easier access. He looks back at his reflection in the mirror — it’s the first time he’s looked at hit all night — he brushes his hair back. He admires your work with a smile.

Not a silver root in sight.


	3. a normal guy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But here, you see Ryouta a normal guy with his family, free and uninhibited — and currently getting a verbal beat down by his older sister.

“So…?” your friend, Rina, asks you as soon as you arrived at class. She has that twinkle in her eyes that just begs for you to gossip with her. You roll your eyes.

“So what?”

She rolls her eyes back and scoffs. “I’m talking about your little date with your boyfriend, of course!” She pulls up her phone and shared with you a picture of you and Ryouta, poking your cheek. She squeals when she looks at the picture again. The picture didn’t belong to a major magazine publication — it was on one of those blogs that fans run about their favorite celebrities. “It must be so nice to go on dates.” She sighs, putting her phone into her pocket. “I wish mine would take me to his school’s festival too.”

“Rina, your boyfriend attends our school, and we’re all busy preparing for our semester projects,” you explain as you take your notebook out of your bag. “And secondly, how many times do I have to tell you that Ryouta and I aren’t dating?”

She scoffs, clearly annoyed at yet another denial of your relationship with him. “When are you going to stop denying it? You guys are clearly meant for each other!” She opens your notebook and scribbles an arrow with a heart for its head, dragging down a makeshift timeline.

For one thing, you were his partner when he took his debut pictorial. And ever since then, you two had been crossing paths. Whenever you would be endorsing a pair of jeans, Ryouta would be posing with the same ones; when he was pictured with the newest Adidas sneakers, you would be pictured beside him. It was like fate was always pairing you up together — but you know none of this is a romantic coincidence. Rather, it is careful planning of two, greedy agencies; you get a buzz by hanging around a budding hot commodity while he gets even more opportunities with your connections. You’re sure Ryouta didn’t even see you as a romantic prospect. Besides, you two are simply tolerating each other for your benefit.

Despite considering Rina a close friend — a best friend — one you could tell everything to; always attached at the hip ever since middle school; being in each other’s classes and seated next to one another, your fake relationship with Ryouta is something you keep to yourself. And your tumultuous and intimate connection with Shougo is something you’ll take to your grave, given Rina (and frankly, your initial) rocky relationship with him back in eighth grade.

Heck, not even the people closest to you know of your relationship with Shougo — it is your little secret, after all.

* * *

You mostly leave school grounds late at night towards the end of the semester. The short time you spent with Ryouta during the weekend charged you slightly, and the night with Shougo refreshed you — even though he had left when you woke up in the morning. But that’s Shougo for you.

While you’re ready for the semester to end, you’re not even halfway finished with your projects, and the semester will trudge on whether you’re done with your projects or not.

You repack the clay into the bag and roll your shoulder. At least you like what you’re doing, as tiring as it may be.

It’s almost 9:30 when you finally leave the pottery studio. You’re ready for a bubble bath; you’re ready for a massage; you’re ready to sleep. You should tell Shougo not to come over tonight, but as you take out your phone, you see a message notification from Ryouta.

Weird. He rarely texts you. Maybe he’s inviting you to a basketball game? But the Inter-High should be over this year — who even won? You were too busy with your own business to attend any of Kaijou’s matches, so you had to turn down all of Ryouta’s invitations.

> _Hey! I’m coming over to your school after practice today! I have something to give you_
> 
> _You busy? That’s fine. I’ll be waiting by the entrance!_

Whether it’s in real life or over texts, Ryouta is always so animated. You know his basketball practice regiment is tough — he says so himself — but it’s admirable how he’s able to keep up his energetic character. You laugh to yourself as you scroll down.

> _Ack! I’ve been spotted!!! (_ _ﾉ_ _Д`) Please come quick!_

You read over the text’s time stamp — 9:00 p.m. — oh dear. You know he can deal with a hoard of fans. He does seem to thrive on attention, after all, but you still gather the strength you have left and sprint towards the main gates.

What’s surprising about Ryouta is his ability to control the room — maybe that’s why he was able to take off in such a short amount of time. (Of course, appearing in a pictorial with you certainly helped.) As soon as he told his fans to give him space, they immediately listened and gave both of you room to head towards the subway station.

It’s odd. He sounded so panicked in his text.

You look up at him curiously, wondering if he’s aware of the power he holds over a crowd. At times, you feel like you’ve figured him out. Your first impression of him wasn’t great — you assumed he was like all the other male celebrities you’ve met: a total prick with inflated heads. And while Ryouta does have instances where he (rightfully) boasts about his very pretty face, you don’t get annoyed about it. Maybe it has to do with the carefree nature of his character. But just when you think you had him figured out, he does something that you never expected him to do. Like how he immediately juts his lips out into a little pout as soon as he notices your gaze — his expression neutral otherwise. Or like now.

“What?”

“Come over for dinner. My sisters really want to see you again, and my mom keeps asking about you,” Ryouta laughs, “Sometimes, I think my family likes you more than me.”

Oh.

Your steps come to an immediate stop, and you look to your feet. Your hand fiddles with your backpack strap nervously. “No, I don’t think I should. I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking your place in your family,” you say as your stomach churns violently. An unpleasant heat rushes to your face — quickly, violently, relentlessly. You keep your eyes on the ground as you continue walking, passing him quickly before stepping into the train station.

You hear him calling your name from behind — a flurry of steps — until Ryouta grabs you by the wrist and pulls you back gently. You try to release the tension building between your brows, but it never does.

Ryouta’s smiling like he did when your managers introduced you to one another and the idea of using one another — you to maintain your recognition; him to elevate his recognition — forced but carefree all at the same time. “It was a joke!” He releases your wrist quickly like he had never even touched you. “I guess I shouldn’t make jokes about that,” he says, looking slightly remorseful — shameful, even. You have never seen Ryouta make that kind of expression.

There’s a deep silence that permeates the air as the two of you continue down the stairs. It’s unsettling since Ryouta rarely stops talking. You steal a glance at him, trying to be as discreet as possible, and you see him comfortably playing a game on his phone.

It seems like you’re the only one uncomfortable with the shift in the mood.

* * *

Ryouta’s family is a complete 180 of your own — they’re chatty, bubbly, and most importantly, they’re present; you feel so comfortable with them. But when Ryouta had told you they liked you more than their own son — their own brother — you just didn’t know what to feel anymore. Sure, you like his family but you definitely did not want him to feel like you were taking his place.

“Why are you so stiff?” one of Ryouta’s sisters, Marika, asks you as she massages your hand. “And I know you’re, like, focused on your art now, but you still need to take better care of yourself!” She taps at one of your chipped nails to make a point. “Look at this! Awful!”

Marika was the one who convinced you to come over for dinner. Of course, you had initially refused; you didn’t feel comfortable being with them now. But you know Marika’s not a quitter — neither of Ryouta’s sisters is — she had begged and called every day until she managed to change your mind. And now that she literally has you in her grasp, she looks over your nails — which she deems horrendous — and tries to fix whatever damage you had done to it while Ryouta helps his mom cook dinner.

“Can’t you be less harsh?” Ryouta asks from the kitchen, “And why are you doing her nails in the living room? Can’t you do that in your room?”

Marika ignores Ryouta's complaints, which he continued to list off until she looks at him. He cowers immediately, refocusing his attention on cutting ingredients. Marika looks as sweet and pretty as Ryouta — heck, his entire family is — but Marika’s direct personality is something that always hits you like a truck, her sweet smile, a trap. “I’m only here because you ordered me not to be alone with her!”

Ryouta lets out a strangled noise. “I ordered you?” he repeats defensively. “Since when do you listen to me?”

Your head goes back and forth the two siblings; their words bounce off one another like a heated tennis match. You have only seen Ryouta react so freely when he’s with his family. Not like it’s in your job description to figure out Ryouta Kise as a person, but it sometimes felt like you’re spending time with Ryouta the model, or Ryouta the prodigal Generation of Miracles member — always feeling like he was playing a part. But here, you see Ryouta a normal guy with his family, free and uninhibited — and currently getting a verbal beat down by his older sister. You laugh.

You had always wondered if the family sitcoms you had been a part of were real, and every time you’re with Ryouta’s family you’re reminded that it is.

This is what family should be.


End file.
